


Happenstance

by amfiguree



Category: The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, John is a time traveler, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a second, you think it's a mistake, you think nothing's changed, you hope, you hope. But then you see Bobby in the light: he's 20 years younger, hair a little shorter than it will be in the future, in your time, his body made up of lean angles instead of the softer planes you've gotten used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happenstance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the crack-a-thon on dry_ice on livejournal. The prompts were "Time travel" and "Hooker!John, or How John Survived Before He Got to the Mansion". This fic will probably make a lot more sense if you've already read "The Time Traveler's Wife" (which is brilliant!). Also, I've taken some liberties with the boys' ages and the timeframe during which the movies happened.

Present

  
If you were more conscientious, you'd probably jot all of your time travels down in some kind of notebook. It would help. You'd stop getting taken by surprise so often, might even be able to make some sort of sense out of it, maybe even pre-empt some of the crap that you've done. Bobby had been (will be?) on your case about it the last time you saw him, and jesus, at 32, the man is a hell of a killjoy. You suppose that since you're only 23, life seems pretty much over once you hit the big 3-0, even when you know better.  
  
So you'd argued with him – not that he'd been expecting any less – but nothing had been resolved by the time you were zapped back into the present. That had annoyed you, and you'd transferred some of that anger onto now-Bobby, who hadn't appreciated it any more than older-Bobby had.  
  
  
 _You are 23, and 6, and fucked_  
  
It's a week later, and you and now-Bobby are still in the middle of that fight. It's a familiar routine by now, though – the fighting – one you've already got memorized by heart. You're at stage four: the point where he starts to warm to you again. He always does.  
  
You are, literally, the fire to his ice, the yin to his yang, all that shit. He tells you that when he's with you it's like being drawn to a flame: "I can't stop it, man. I know I'm gonna get burned, and I do it anyway."  
  
"Great," you'd said, with a hard laugh. "You go up in flames, and I get to drown."  
  
Masochistic bastards, the both of you.   
  
Still, you know you're going to get there eventually - the time where you two are to each other what you want to be - despite Rogue and the stunts she pulls to keep Bobby under her thumb. Even if you couldn't time travel, you'd know. Being around Bobby feels like forever. But you've been waiting for him to realize that for years now, fucking _years_ , and the in-betweens are starting to take their toll.  
  
So you're out today, just a quick nip down to the 7-11 near the mansion to get a pack of smokes, when you get this sick feeling in the pit of your stomach.  
  
That's when you realize. It happens right the fuck _now_.  
  
The first time you'd time traveled. You were six.   
  
Jesus Christ, you can't believe you forgot, but the next time it'd happened had been years later, and at six, everything out of the ordinary was easily explained away as some kind of nightmare.  
  
Then you remember, you _remember_ , and you take off without grabbing the cigarettes, because _Bobby fucking found you first_. Your hands are clammy as you run, even though it's stupid, it's stupid because you already know that you're friends with Bobby in the future, in every future you've traveled to, so you can't have screwed up here, can't have, but your heart is pounding and blood is roaring in your ears as you yank the door to your bedroom open, and skid to a halt inside the room the two of you share.  
  
It's too late. Mini-you is already there, all of six-years-old and completely buck naked (some days you think it's funny that you've never found a way to keep your clothes on), staring wide-eyed at Bobby, who's fumbling around for clothes and a blanket small enough to wrap around you.  
  
Both of them glance up at your entrance. Bobby looks from you to you as a kid, and you – now-you, the one who can pretty much read Bobby's fucking mind from the twitch of an eyebrow – can see the moment everything falls into place for him. "Bobby," you say anyway, half desperate and grasping at straws. "This is--"  
  
"Not what it looks like?" Bobby offers. "Messed up?" He pauses then, his eyes narrowed. "You?"  
  
"You're crazy," you laugh, but it cracks at the end, and you clear your throat. Involuntarily, your gaze snaps back to then-you. You're biting your lower lip, fingers twitching like you're about to reach out for something. Now-you shoves your hands deeper into your pockets so you don't curl them around your lighter.  
  
"Am I?" Bobby demands, looking at you. Both of you. "Tell me, John. Am I crazy?"  
  
You open your mouth, throat working, but nothing comes out. Bobby snorts, disgusted, and then folds to his knees to tend to you, the younger you. "Hey buddy," he says, and his voice is gentle. The memories are starting to come back, but they're still fuzzy. "Let's go get you something to put on, okay?"  
  
You, then-you, look(s) like you're about to nod, but then your lips twist, and your tiny hands come up to fist Bobby's shirt, wild-eyed and desperate. Your pain is a quiet, whispered shout, and then you jerk (and you remember that, that tug at your naval, like you're in an elevator that's being yanked up and up and up), almost folding in half. And then you're gone.  
  
Bobby stares at nothing for a second, his fingers still hooked around air. Then he looks at you, now-you, incredulous and confused, but you come up blank. You don't have the words.   
  
Then he stands, like he's going to make something out of this, like he wants to talk it out, and you retreat into the bathroom hastily. You don't have the energy.  
  
Your fingers are trembling as you reach for your cigarettes, until you remember you left them on the counter back at the store. You didn't buy them. You don't have the cigarettes.   
  
You don't have anything.  
  
  
  


Past

  
You must have the worst memory in the history of things with bad memories. You're only 19, and already your time lines are all starting to run together in your head. It's getting harder to keep track of what happens when, and you are still adamantly against the use of a notebook. You just can't wrap your mind around the fact that someone might one day read that book, and everything – every damn thing that you've ever thought and felt and experienced – will be laid out on the table.  
  
"Boring McBroody!" you hear Bobby yell, suddenly, and your head snaps up. Suddenly, you're soaking wet, freezing water running in rivulets down your neck. Winter always brings out the best in Bobby.  
  
"Motherfucking--" you snarl, snapping out your Bic as you spring to your feet. Still, even Bobby knows it's half-hearted, and he dances easily out of the reach of your flames.  
  
  
 _You are 19, and 13_  
  
You don't know why, but you're panicking.  
  
One second you'd been in the park, and now you're here. Here as in lying naked in a dank, dark alleyway that you don't recognize.  
  
But that's not what gets to you.  
  
 _You know this,_ your brain tells you, as you struggle to your feet, bare but for your skin against the cold winter night. _You know what happens._  
  
For some reason, you look across the street. In the faint light, you can just make out two figures. One of them is big, burly; the other can't be a day over thirteen. It's like something out of a movie. You watch, a prickly feeling at the back of your neck as the kid sinks to his knees, and suddenly the picture fits the frame and all this makes sense.   
  
It makes _sense_ , and you take off sprinting down the road, your breath hitching, blowing smoke out in front of you. "Hey!" you're screaming, voice hoarse from the cold, throat tight with panic. "Get your fucking filthy hands _off_ him, goddammit!"  
  
Oh, _God_ , Jesus, Mother fucking Mary. That kid. That's _you._ You whip out your lighter, barely holding it steady between your numb fingers, but your aim rings true, your flame hitting your target on the mark, just like you've been trained. The guy goes down. Stays down.   
  
You grind to a stop just before you reach the alley. You, then-you, look(s) terrified, like you can't believe what you'd just been about to do. Both of you look down at the body, and then instinct seems to kick in, and the younger you snaps a quick hand down, grabs the guy's wallet, and runs off into the night without even a backward glance.   
  
Time slows, goes still. You don't even move. Your stomach is churning.   
  
_That's_ when you remember the rest of it. Even on the cusp of puberty, you were pretty, always getting picked on in school by the older boys. _Fucking faggot,_ they used to say. _You wanna suck my cock, you sick bastard? Bet you'd fucking like that._   
  
It hadn't seemed like such a bad idea, back then. You'd been desperate for a way out, anything, anywhere, all you wanted was to make a quick buck and get the hell out of dodge. Sucking dick hadn't sounded too difficult.  
  
This would've been your first time.  
  
Except it wasn't, because some stranger, some naked _stranger_ , had come out of nowhere and fucking rescued you. Now, you drop your head against the brick wall, pressing your cheek to graffiti, breathing heavily. _You_ rescued you, and in your thirteen-year-old mind, that'd sealed the deal, made being a hooker look like an easy ride.  
  
Fucking and being fucked, you learned by rote. It was easy, quickly became the only skill you ever knew or needed. Until it wasn't enough anymore. You remember thinking, one night after you'd been roofied, gang-banged and left for dead, that it was the funniest, most ironic thing in the world that your name was John and you were a whore.  
  
Your breathing pattern shifts, and when you swipe your hand across your face, it comes away damp.  
  
Now you know. Now you understand.   
  
You can't change the future.   
  
  
  


In-Between

  
You've always believed that what's in the past should stay there. What you did isn't who you are. It's funny how the world works, though, since the way you live completely belies the motto you live by.  
  
Most of the time you don't think about the shitty hand that you've been dealt – the saying 'regret is self-inflicted' is the only thing you got out of an unintentional two-day stay with some Buddhist monk seven years from now – but sometimes you let yourself give in to the useless self-pity.  
  
It happens more and more once Rogue arrives at the mansion. You figure it's because Bobby's a complete asshole around her. You'd been getting through to him before, had even managed to loosen him up a little, taught him that life isn't just about following rules and waiting for the right moments that never come.   
  
The bitch wipes all that progress off the chart like it was never even there.  
  
It doesn't help that the time traveling thing is starting to happen more often, either. Every time you're pulled through the fabric, sucked in one way and spit out at some other opening, it gets harder and harder to claw your way back; it's like the seams come together tighter after you rip them apart the first time.  
  
You're starting to think that you're going to find yourself stranded one day, lost somewhere in time, and you have no idea if anyone's going to care enough to come looking.  
  
You don't even know if you want them to.  
  
  
  


Future

  
_You are 45; Bobby is 27_  
  
You change your mind about being rescued when you get older, when life has settled into a comfortable routine that you're happy with, grateful for. When life is something you're not willing to give up. You're grinning to yourself, watching Bobby fiddle with your zippo, when you vanish that evening. The world disappears for a second, then rights itself, and when you open your eyes, Bobby's still doing the same thing. Still got that Bic in his hands.   
  
For a second, you think it's a mistake, you think nothing's changed, you hope, you _hope_. But then you see Bobby in the light: he's 20 years younger, hair a little shorter than it will be in the future, in your time, his body made up of lean angles instead of the softer planes you've gotten used to.   
  
You're good at being quiet after thirty years of traveling, learned every trick in the book about keeping an eye out for danger, about observing the environment. About survival. Bobby jumps when you clear your throat. But he's gotten used to your random appearances by now, if the way he looks up at you and smiles is anything to go by.  
  
"Hey, John," he says, and his voice is light. Friendly. He gestures at the blanket on your bed. "Go ahead."  
  
He's grinning at you, though, your nudity clearly a non-issue, just something else he's gotten used to, and you smile despite yourself. You wish, in that moment, that there wasn't still so much for the younger you to go through. You're almost glad that he – _you_ \- doesn't know exactly how much there is.  
  
"Nah," you say finally, waving off the offer. You realize your Bobby's already told you about this meeting, barely a couple of days ago in your time. You hadn't been paying attention, but you remember him saying it doesn't last long.   
  
He's right, of course. He's so much better at cataloging your life than you are.  
  
Already, you can feel yourself starting to fade. "Just making sure you haven't killed yourself," you say.  
  
You hear then-Bobby chuckle fondly, and then you don't.  
  
  
  


Present

  
It's not like Bobby doesn't ask about your past, especially in the beginning. He does - about a million times too, because the boy is nothing if not a persistent son of a bitch. To him, everyone's life story is another adventure waiting to be told. But you don't like talking about it, so you don't.  
  
After a couple of years, Bobby stops prodding. "You'll tell me eventually," he says one morning, completely serene, his hands tucked behind his head as he watches you attack your breakfast from across the dining table.   
  
You snort into your coffee.  
  
"That," he adds, "Or a younger version of you is gonna show up at the doorstep one morning, unannounced and scared shitless, and I'll figure it out."  
  
You pause, then, sifting carefully through memories that follow no time line, and you can tell without looking up that Bobby's grinning, triumphant.   
  
"Yeah," you say finally, smugly, as you flick a slice of toast at him. "Never happened."


End file.
